


Winter's End

by prosodiical



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Canadian Shack, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12998304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/pseuds/prosodiical
Summary: Newt's looking for a new creature, Theseus for answers and absolution, and they find themselves meeting half-way.





	Winter's End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallingintodivinity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingintodivinity/gifts).



> Thanks so much for donating to Puerto Rico, cirnellie! I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it for you!
> 
> And my thanks to Archea2 for the beta!

Theseus notices it first. "Newt, are you... feeling that?"

He's frowning at his hand held out palm-up, and Newt takes one look at the flickering _lumos_ he's holding and realises why. "Oh," Newt says, "that's - so it's actually true."

Theseus's eyebrows rise. "Newt, what - "

"I hadn't thought it would be," Newt protests, half-heartedly. "It didn't seem particularly likely - the tales have a largely Muggle origin, as far as I've heard."

The spells on his case are probably self-contained and stable enough to stay well intact, but he sets it down to double-check as Theseus keeps a wary eye on the surrounding woods. It's cold already, snow sparse on the ground but lying thick on the boughs of the evergreen trees, and Theseus pulls out his own wand and layers a few more warming enchantments on his boots.

"I don't know how well your enchantments will last," Newt says, apologetically. "I - well, if it really is the case that there's a magic nullification effect - "

"How much of a 'nullification effect'?" Theseus's voice is dubious, and Newt glances at him briefly; Theseus takes one look at his expression and sighs. "Of course. No magic. Fantastic."

"If you'd rather go - "

"I can't just leave you here," Theseus says, "what's a creature hunt alone? I'll make do. Will your charms hold?"

"Well enough, I think," Newt says, and rises back to his feet. The dirt falls from his spelled trousers and he casts a look over the sky barely visible through the trees, already dimming to dusk with the dappled light casting long shadows on the ground. He picks up his case by the handle and slips his wand back up his sleeve. "I'll have enough warning before they fail, at least."

"As long as you're not planning on taking one home."

Newt slides him a look and catches the tail end of Theseus's smile. "It's not something I usually plan, you know."

"Of course not," Theseus says, with some amusement. "Just as you didn't plan the thunderbird, or the graphorns, or the nundu - "

"Those," Newt says, "were entirely different circumstances."

"Entirely," Theseus repeats, with a mock gravity that makes Newt's wand hand itch for a playful hex, but then he gives Newt a crooked grin and Newt can't fault him, faced with the fondness in his smile. "Come on, then. Let's go hunting."

Newt protests at the term, but it isn't that far from the reality of it a few hours later, trudging through the darkness, the shadows looming large in the forest with the faint moonlight through the high-branched trees. There have been signs: claw marks on tree trunks, patches of shed fur, but the heating charms on his boots have started to falter and Newt's started to feel the cold creeping in through his toes.

"Are you sure they're here?" Theseus says, voice pitched low. His arms are wrapped around himself, but Newt can't see much more than the edges of him in the night, his hair dulled to grey and the moonlight reflected in his eyes. "If we should come back tomorrow - "

"Shh," Newt says, eyes on the trees, and Theseus does. There's a shadow of - something, larger than he'd thought, in one of the trees on the edge of his sight, but when he takes a careful step closer it vanishes into the night. Newt presses his hand to the bark of the tree it left, feeling the chill seep through his fingers to his bones, and looks up into the dark boughs, searching. "I'm sorry," Newt says, as Theseus approaches, footsteps crunching in the snow. "I think it's gone."

"Back here tomorrow, then?" Theseus says. When he takes Newt's hand, his fingers are ice-cold. "Please tell me you have warming charms in your case."

"I have warming charms in my case," Newt says, "but we should find - somewhere more safe, at least."

Theseus tries a _point-me_ charm, but his wand makes one pitiful attempt at a spin before it stutters to a stop on his palm. Newt's studying the pattern of trees, or trying to; it's difficult to tell which way they should go, even with the faint gleam of moonlight on the gently falling snow. "This way," Newt says, after some deliberation, and Theseus squeezes his fingers and lets Newt's hand go.

The winter's eerie, here. Quiet. They'd portkeyed in just two days ago, after Newt received an enthusiastic owl from a contact he'd helped with a local rougarou problem with a new tale of a tree-dwelling, bear-shaped creature spotted deep in the woods. He'd been in London, staying at Theseus's flat, and his brother had taken one look at Newt's coat and case as he was halfway out the door again and said, "You don't think you're leaving without me, do you?"

Newt had, actually, and watched Theseus pack with an odd bemusement, a strange feeling taking root in his heart.

It hasn't really faded, for all that Theseus seems largely unfazed by the trip, even though Newt can tell he's feeling the frost starting to nip at his nose and fingers and toes. There's a light dusting of white in his hair that catches the minimal light, and Newt finds himself watching his profile as he trudges through the increasingly heavy snow. "Wait," Newt says, when Theseus passes him by, and he stops there, tilting his head, the intricacies of his expression lost in the dark. "Let me check my case."

He knows he has warming charms layered on blankets, extra socks and scarves and boots in his case, but the moment Newt sticks his head inside he can feel the magic of his expansion and habitat charms shiver warningly against his skin. Dougal's eyes are the first thing he sees, gleaming blue as he shoos Newt back out, and Newt bites his lip as a spare Hufflepuff scarf flies out of the case before the lid snaps shut.

Theseus catches it from the air. "Well, this doesn't look good."

"There must be something," Newt says, more uncertain than he means to. "At the very least, we can turn around and go back to town."

"And lose your trail?" Theseus spins in a slow circle, scanning the horizon obscured by trees and falling snow as he wraps the scarf around his neck. "You said there had been rumors, didn't you? That someone had been here before."

"Rumors," Newt says, "not anything definite - "

"This way," Theseus says, and Newt catches the flash of his smile against the darkness. "Come on."

Newt isn't certain how he's finding his way, not at first, but soon he notices the faint oppressive feeling of restricted magic, the compression of it deep under his skin. Theseus is more sensitive to it, always has been, and as he treks through the snow, occasionally reorienting himself, Newt spends nearly as much time trying to discern the shadowed expression on his face as he does looking for tracks. As much as they're moving, there are fewer and fewer marks of tree-dwelling creatures, and Newt stops him as the wind picks up, the snow heavy, the path they've taken already gone.

"I don't know that we're," Newt starts, but his voice feels lost, muffled. Theseus leans in, tugs at Newt's scarf and flashes him a grin. "Theseus - "

"We," Theseus says, "are right on track. Look."

He points, and then Newt sees it, as though rising from the fog: something larger and more solid than the trees that surround them; something alien in this dense natural landscape, human-made. Newt gives Theseus a curious look but he's already moving forward, his fingers tucked into Newt's elbow and tugging him along, a warm, solid buffer against the cold. The dark shape turns into a building, then resolves into a cottage made of wood, and Theseus raps sharply on the door and waits a long moment before pushing through.

The lock on it is metal, Muggle. Newt feels himself breathe in the cool air inside removed from the chill of the wind and flurried snow, and barely has time to take in the dark shapes of furniture before Theseus has stuck his head in the adjoining room. "Is - anyone here?" Newt asks, and Theseus's shake of his head is lost in his coat and scarf.

"Looks empty," Theseus says, voice muffled in layers of fabric, "but I thought it might be."

He gets his head clear as he dumps a substantial pile of snow and ice, scarf and coat on the floor, then runs his fingers through his hair to shake out the rest. Newt unwinds his own scarf, slower, as Theseus rummages through something that must be a drawer. "You knew this was here," Newt says doubtfully.

"It's been years since I've seen them," Theseus says, and there's the sharp sound of a muggle matchstick set alight, then the flickering flame lighting his face, eyebrows furrowed, mouth twisted in a thoughtful frown. He holds it aloft as he turns once around the room, then sets it to the few logs in the tiny fireplace; he does it like he's done it before. "The marks on the trees and the door, they're an old Muggle path-marker, a safe house. I learnt it from one of the Americans we worked with in the war." He glances at Newt, face lit by the burgeoning flame, oranges and reds setting the dark colour of his hair alight. "C'mere. You look awful."

"I do not," Newt protests reflexively, but sets his case down and joins Theseus down on the wooden floor, unbuttoning his coat as he goes. Theseus pulls at the sleeves and brushes the lingering snow, melting slowly now, from Newt's shoulders. "Muggle?"

"It's always useful. You know."

He stokes the fire as it catches on the old logs, half-charred; the flickering light casts odd shadows across his face. Newt opens his mouth, closes it, and worries his lower lip between his teeth as he stretches out his fingers, feeling the faint warmth from the fire eclipsed by Theseus's body right beside him, practically a furnace emitting heat. "Thank you," he says, after another false start, and: "Theseus - "

Theseus says, "You're shivering," and takes Newt's hands in his.

Newt is, he realises, as though the cold's sunk into his bones. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, after the time he's spent travelling, a cold autumn in the Antarctic when he'd forgotten to enchant his coat waterproof, but there's something strange about being here with Theseus, as though no time has passed since they were children crowded around the fireplace at home. "Theseus," Newt starts, again. When Theseus looks at him Newt's thrown by the intensity of his eyes and he looks away, staring determinedly at the fire. "Why - why did you come?"

"I can't be interested in your work?" Theseus says, his tone forced light. "It's been ages since we've spent time together."

"Exactly," Newt says, and chances a glance at him, his gaze flitting from the shadows in his cheeks and under his eyes to the line of his mouth, the corners pulled tight. "We haven't - I haven't seen you much at all. Even when I'm in London, you're - "

"I've been busy," Theseus says, voice suddenly rough, "that's all."

He drops Newt's hands abruptly as though they're hot coals, and Newt flexes his fingers and peers at him as Theseus pulls away, rising in one swift movement to his feet. "Merlin knows if there's plumbing here," Theseus says, "but I'll heat some water over the fire for you," and then, without his coat or a scarf or even a backward look he's gone through the door in a rush of wind and snow.

Newt stares after him uncomprehendingly for a long moment, before he comes back to his senses and follows him outside.

His head raised to the sky and entirely still, Theseus looks eerie, distant and strangely untouchable. He's always been the handsome one, deservedly so, and against the clouded night sky and lit by the fire against the gentle falling curtain of snow, he looks almost like a statue, still and silent and unreal. A gust of wind goes straight through Newt and the coat in his arms and he's brought back to himself by the cutting ache of it deep under his skin; he presses forward against it and pushes Theseus's coat over his shoulders. "You idiot," Newt says, his voice feeling like it's stolen from his chest. Theseus tilts his head and there's something unreadable in his expression that vanishes in an instant, so fast Newt could have imagined it.

"You're the idiot," Theseus says, setting down the bucket he found from who-knows-where before shoving at Newt gently. "What are you doing? Newt, your coat - "

"You're the one who came out here," Newt starts, but Theseus's hands are warm and firm on his shoulders as he steers them both back inside. "Theseus."

Theseus drops his hands from Newt's shoulders, but Newt catches one, his fingers stilling on Theseus's palm. There's nothing readable in his brother's expression behind the frown barely touching his mouth, and Newt can't help but wonder why - why he's doing all of this. "Have you been avoiding me?"

"Would I have come out here if I was?" Theseus says, too lightly. "You know I'm happy to have you over when you're home. I mean, Mum's always on my case about it - "

"Theseus," Newt says.

Theseus stops. "I really was just busy, Newt," he says. "I'm here now, aren't I?"

In the dark of Theseus's eyes Newt wonders if he's imagining the flicker of something unreadable beneath his brief smile. "Even so," Newt says, "this isn't just about - us spending time together, again. Is it?"

"I just want you to be safe," Theseus says, and looks away. "It's easier when I'm with you."

Newt says, "If this is about New York - "

"Let's not, all right?" Theseus pulls his hand away from Newt's grip and Newt, somewhat reluctantly, lets him go. "I'll melt some snow for us. You think you can con that demiguise of yours into giving you more things?"

"I'd hardly need to _con_ him," Newt says, but when he tests the locks on his case they're definitively closed. It's his charms, designed to stop intrusion when they need to, and Newt grimaces and worries his lower lip between his teeth, narrowly watching Theseus when he steps back in through the door liberally dusted with snow. Newt's shirtsleeves are already uncomfortably damp as the snow's slowly melted, and Theseus looks as though he's faring no better, his hair drooping like he's been out in the rain. "Perhaps we should head back," Newt says, tentatively, as Theseus sits down, holding his hands out to the meager fire. "Without heating charms..."

"I've weathered worse," Theseus says. "These glawackuses you were looking for - they've never been seen before, haven't they? The boon to your book alone - "

"Aren't you always saying I take far too many risks for my book?" The draught from the door isn't terrible with it closed, but Newt still feels the chill of the outside air against his skin, and he starts on the buttons of his far-too-damp shirt. "If you're changing your mind, of course - "

"Newt," Theseus says, as Newt casts around and ends up shifting his case closer to the hearth, laying his shirt across it with sleeves fanned out. "You - "

He cuts himself off, then. Newt glances at him, the firelight casting his hair in oranges and golds, and says, "If you'd rather - "

"No," Theseus says, "no. I - really haven't been around much for you, have I?"

"I have been travelling," Newt says, and sits down beside him, wondering at the way Theseus's gaze lingers on his scars. "I - well, I didn't mean to accuse you of anything."

"I know." Theseus sighs, then reaches over; Newt lets him take his hand and sketch his life past and future in his palm, examine the marks left by creatures across his forearm. "All the trouble you get in, Newt."

Newt peers at him through his eyelashes, warmed by Theseus's smile. "I don't exactly mean to."

"Of course not. But you're not the Gryffindor here, you shouldn't be running headlong into danger all the time."

"I'm learning by example," Newt says, biting back a smile, and Theseus shakes his head on a huff of a laugh and pulls him in close, his arm around Newt's bare shoulders, his body warm enough under his not-quite-dry clothes, pressed against Newt's side. "Will that fire last the night?"

"It should," Theseus says, "so tell me what gave you that scar. Something with ten claws?"

Newt says, "You don't really want to hear about that," but of course, Theseus does.

It's been years, Newt realises, since they've shared, and talked, and had a chance like this together. For all that Newt's roomed with Theseus whenever he's briefly returned to London, each time he's been more distant than the last. He's wondered, briefly, if it was something he'd done, some social faux-pas that Theseus had taken badly, something about Newt himself that made Theseus gradually retreat, but now he's not certain at all; Theseus is watching him with a strange, fascinated attentiveness, one that makes Newt feel equally flattered and lost. Theseus hadn't been interested, Newt had thought, in his life and work and writing; but he is now, or seems to be, and Newt wonders if he always has been.

When his shirtsleeves are dry, Newt smoothes out the fabric and wishes his ironing charms were more sturdy enchantments. He'll look a mess by the time all this is over, unlike Theseus who wears wrinkles with a confident aplomb. He shrugs it back over his shoulders and pauses mid-button to find Theseus - still watching him, with a curious intensity that makes Newt feel almost nervous, strangely warm. "Was there," Newt starts, hesitating, and Theseus blinks, his gaze on Newt's face so piercing Newt drops his gaze to the cool wooden floor.

"Should I see what I can scrounge up? There's some blankets in the other room." Theseus rises to his feet, a hand on Newt's shoulder, and for some reason Newt's reminded of the last time they shared a cot, that brief night of reprieve during the war. Newt had been exhausted, too tired to think or talk and Theseus had been much the same; he'd woken, briefly, to Theseus's face buried in his neck, his breath hitching, silent, and thought of bodies strewn across the dirt and the futility of it all. Theseus looks at him, and for a moment Newt thinks he's remembering the same, of the way he'd smoothed Newt's hair over his forehead, the way his fingertips had lingered on Newt's ear, the way his gaze had never left Newt's face until he closed his eyes and abruptly pulled away, the ghost of his breath across Newt's cheek still there until the morning.

Newt's dreams had been disjointed that night, thrilling and terrifying, filling him with a guilty uncertainty when he saw Theseus again. But - he hadn't - 

Newt bites his tongue as he watches Theseus's profile, lean and long-limbed, lit unevenly by the firelight as he steps away.

It's strange, remembering that now. It's strange, the way Theseus's attention makes Newt feel that intoxicating flush of warmth once again, the way he remembers thinking, _I could just -_ when he looked at Theseus, that perhaps he could have leant forward; that perhaps, Theseus wouldn't lean away. Newt watches the stretch of Theseus's shirt over his back and wonders if he has any new scars, wonders - suddenly, terrifyingly - if Theseus would show him, if Newt asked.

Theseus returns from the other room with a few musty blankets, moth-eaten wool and fraying patchwork that he shakes out in a whoosh of dust and stale air. The fire flickers unsteadily, and when Theseus looks over to him, Newt wonders if all his thoughts are written plain across his face. "Let's hope we won't be without magic too long," Theseus says, "but this should do for tonight."

Newt says, "It really - has been a while, hasn't it?" and Theseus stills, blankets half-pooled on the floor. Newt swallows, looking away. "I'm sorry."

"No," Theseus says, quietly, "no, it... has."

Newt looks at him, trying to read Theseus's expression in his shadowed face beyond the unsteady firelight reflected in his eyes. "I've always - just wanted to help," he says, haltingly, "and if I - overstepped my bounds somehow - "

"Newt," Theseus says, shaking his head, and lets his grip on the blankets go. They fall to the floor as he takes a step forward, then two; he drops to his knees and Newt looks into his face, the unreadable furrow of his brows. "You're my brother. You've always meant well, and there aren't any 'bounds' you can cross. If I've made you think otherwise - "

Newt says, "You wouldn't have come on this trip if you weren't worried. Specifically."

"Worried you'd catch your death of cold." Theseus leans over and wraps a blanket around Newt's shoulders, letting his breath out through his teeth. "And, yes, there may have been a threat to your person - "

"Theseus," Newt says, "you know that isn't what I mean."

"Perhaps," Theseus says, in a tone that almost reaches flippant, "I wanted to mend this, Newt. Distance hasn't done us any favours."

"And yet - you were the one who kept..."

"Running away?" Theseus raises his eyebrows, and Newt feels his face warm before Theseus smiles, somewhat wry, and looks away. "I'm here now, aren't I? I'm sorry, you know. It was just... me."

His tone is final, but while Newt knows he shouldn't push, he hardly knows what to do with this Theseus, his gaze fixed on the fire, his mind miles away. He reaches out, sets his hand on Theseus's knee, and silently lifts a corner of the threadbare blanket around his shoulders; the corner of Theseus's mouth twitches and he shuffles in close, the heat of him pressed all along Newt's side. It's intoxicating, the whole-hearted warmth of his gaze, and Newt finds himself examining the curve of his jawline, the tilt of his smile. Newt's never wanted anything as much as this, to pull Theseus close - closer, to map the stretch of Theseus's back with his fingers and press his mouth to the angles of his collarbones, to pull him down, skin to skin, and never let him go.

Newt says instead, his voice stilted and quiet, "Thank you. For coming."

"Newt," Theseus says, and Newt meets his gaze briefly, long enough for Theseus to read his thoughts in his eyes if he were so inclined. But Theseus just sets his nose against Newt's cheek, breathes him in as though he's a man drowning without a wand, and Newt closes his eyes and pulls him carefully close. "You're far too good to me, you know," Theseus says, and despite himself, Newt smiles.

"You've always looked out for me," Newt says, "so if anything - "

"Oh, shut up," Theseus tells him, and Newt drops his head to Theseus's shoulder to muffle his laugh. "Let me get all this guilt out at once. Though you seem to be managing fine without me looking over your shoulder all the time."

"That doesn't mean I don't want you there."

Theseus's answering smile makes Newt feel delightfully warm, a flush he feels guilty for creeping up his neck. Newt bites his lip and meets Theseus's eyes and it's like a dream, hazy and unreal, when Theseus lifts a hand to Newt's face, a ghost of a touch against his skin, when Newt shifts forward, just enough that he's sitting across Theseus's thighs. Theseus looks at him and Newt wonders if he's just imagining the kindling fire in his eyes, if it's a figment of an overactive imagination, his hopes and dreams come alight.

"Newt," Theseus says, and Newt sways forward unthinking into his careful touch; he watches Theseus's gaze drop as he brushes his thumb, feather-light, over the corner of Newt's mouth. "You..."

"Please," Newt says, and Theseus kisses him.

It's gentle, and then not; Newt's breath leaves him in a strange, terrified rush, his blood like it's burning under his skin, thrumming loud in his ears as he winds his fingers in Theseus's hair and pulls him in close. Theseus's fingers dig into his hips and Newt can't think past the fog in his mind, the shiver down his skin and the heat in his gut, the warmth of Theseus's mouth and the slide of his tongue against Newt's own. Theseus breaks away with a shaky, "Newt - we can't - " and Newt can't stop looking at his mouth, can't stop the tug of his fingers in Theseus's hair and the heady rush of desire when he presses his teeth into his lower lip and sees Theseus's gaze fixed on his mouth, his pupils wide and dark and wanting.

Newt's drawn to him like he's bespelled, like there's a potion in the air and he's completely unable to stop; he kisses him again and again until his breath trembles in his chest, admits, "I - I thought about this, before," into the curve of Theseus's neck. "Theseus."

"You shouldn't," Theseus says, but his fingers are under the band of Newt's trousers, his voice muffled against Newt's shoulder. "We shouldn't. I should - I should be taking care of you, not - this - "

Newt slides his fingers down the edge of Theseus's ear, the underside of his jaw. "I - I do want this," Newt says, "and - no one has to know."

Theseus closes his eyes and swears, vicious and quiet. But he doesn't let go. 

Without the magic that they've grown with it feels muddled, blurred, the shadows stretching long and the chill of the air biting at his fingers and toes and Newt presses Theseus back down to the pile of threadbare blankets and dust; Theseus kisses him like he's thought of nothing else for years, like he's felt the ache of this desire so old it's settled in his bones. The firelight makes his dark eyes unreadable but for the fond quirk of his smile when he kisses Newt again, until they're both breathless, until Newt knows nothing but the taste of Theseus's skin, the scent of him, the particular way he says Newt's name.

And afterward, Theseus holds him close as the fire smoulders in the hearth, as Newt's eyelids fall heavy and his mind whirls slow. "Everything I've done," Theseus says, into the mess of Newt's hair, "and you - "

He sighs. Newt looks at him, and Theseus brushes Newt's hair from his forehead, his fingertips resting light on Newt's cheek. Newt says, "Even then?"

Theseus brings their foreheads together, sets an arm around Newt's waist, and kisses him, oddly chaste. "Do you regret it?"

"No," Newt says, "no."

"Then," Theseus says, "perhaps I should learn from your example, for once."

Newt peers at him, unable to read the complicated expression that flits across his face, and decides to give it up as lost. "Perhaps you should," he mumbles into Theseus's chest, and surrenders to his warm embrace after making a mental note to himself to wake up before dawn.

He manages it, barely. Newt rises to cold air and a fire that's all embers and dusty ash, and he tries to coax it to life only briefly before he checks once again on his case. The charms have held, and Newt knows Dougal can manage well enough, so he wraps himself up again in layers of clothing, coat and scarf, drinks the melted snow-water straight from the bucket, and heads out before the day's first light.

Newt knows the feeling of it now. His magic simmers under his skin, like a spring coiled far too tight, and he follows the itching sensation that presses it down even tighter. The snowfall has ceased but the air is still and cold, and Newts breath mists in front of him as he shoves his hands further into his pockets, hoping the warming enchantments will last. The trail picks up; tracks, claws, fur, and Newt steps slower and more carefully at each new reminder that he's all but powerless against them, that he can't - won't - intrude.

It ends not abruptly but with Newt spotting yet another shadow in the slow rising dawn, a creature painted white to blend with the snow. It's smaller than he'd thought, but then he tilts his head and it's like a fracturing Disillusionment charm the way he suddenly sees them, a whole family of them crouched in the trees and across the snow, barking to each other in a sound just on the edge of his hearing.

Newt watches them for a long moment: the mother who pushes her young with her nose, the adventurous one who slips down a tree-trunk, claws dragging in the bark, and is immediately camouflaged when it gambols in the snow; he commits them to memory, the length of their tails and the articulation of their joints and the spread of their claws, and then turns around to head back home.

\- but Theseus is there, watching him. He's wearing Newt's Hufflepuff scarf and his eyes are the color of the sky as it lightens; he doesn't move until Newt approaches him, and Newt can't read the thoughtful crease to his eyebrows, the wry edge to his faint smile. "I suppose we're headed home," he says, mindfully quiet, and Newt feels a swell of familiar affection for him, alongside something warm and still startlingly new.

So he kisses him, his lips against the corner of Theseus's mouth until Theseus's smile widens and he slips his hands into Newt's coat pockets, reeling him in close. "Shh," Newt says, somewhat belatedly, to Theseus's muffled laugh, and casts an eye behind him to check they haven't been heard. When he looks back, Theseus's eyes are liquid soft and Newt's breath feels caught. "Oh."

"Oh?" Theseus asks, and Newt shakes his head and pulls them both on.

"It's nothing," Newt says. Perhaps he'd forgotten for a while, or perhaps they both did; but they've always loved each other, after all. "Let's go."


End file.
